


Anamnesis

by brevitas



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, Reincarnation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:03:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brevitas/pseuds/brevitas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel and Feuilly would recognize each other anywhere, even in America centuries after their deaths with different names and a forgotten past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

Calhoun Carlson is walking home from the gym at eight on a Tuesday morning when he's struck.

It begins like an electric shock at the base of his spine and climbs his vertebraes with nimble hands, drives up into the back of his skull and knocks him breathless. He's damp with sweat already and narrowly avoids throwing up from the sudden influction of pain, steps down an alley to collect himself. Had he stayed on the sidewalk he might have seen Mastak Barlow where he was bent over on the other side of the road with his hands on his knees--but he did not, and both men go home where they sleep for nine hours and shrug it off.

Two months later Calhoun is next in line for a coffee when the door opens behind him with a chime and a sharp pain bites into his temples with no more warning than that. He grunts in surprise and nearly drops his wallet, sets the heel of his hand against his head.

"Are you okay?" The barista is peering worriedly up at him, her fingers hovering over the cash register's keys. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," he says through his teeth, and slaps down a five. "Venti black, no sugar, no cream."

Behind him there's a bit of a commotion and he looks back; a man is on his hands and knees on the floor right in front of the door, his head bowed so low that his dark hair is brushing the tiles. A woman is kneeling beside him with a hand on his shoulder, speaking to him in a low undertone that Calhoun can only hear the hum of.

For some reason his gaze lingers and the man shakes back his hair, gingerly sits on his heels and glances at Calhoun and their eyes meet for a heartbeat-- "Sir?"

He looks back at the barista reflexively, who has her head tilted and is frowning at him in concern. She's holding his coffee and she gives it over mutely, chews her bottom lip before asking, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah." He chugs half the coffee to calm his trembling hands and leaves his change in the tip jar, turns and sidles around the cluster of people crowding the fallen man. He starts feeling better as he walks home but the single searing image of the stranger's green eyes doesn't stop haunting him for the next week.

It's nearly been a year since the last flare of pain when Mastak is sitting in his flat and he's suddenly bashed with agony. He has a cigarette in one hand and a paintbrush in the other and he drops the one least important (if you must know, it's the cigarette--he has hundreds of them but the brushes are liable to cost more than a full day's pay) when he grabs at his head, blindly reaches out and sets the brush down on the lip of his easel.

His doorbell rings and he stands up, hurriedly pushing his hair out of his eyes as he shuffles to the door. He grits his jaw so as not to scream at the pain and pulls the door open, has barely looked up before he says, " _Bahorel_."

It's an unfamiliar word that he can't remember ever saying before but it slides off his tongue unhindered, barely trips on his teeth and is carried on a sigh, and he stares at the FedEx delivery man who's facing him. The youth looks confused, one eyebrow arched, his mouth pulled into a flat line. "What?" He asks, juggles the package he's carrying under one arm. "What's a 'Bahorel'?"

"Uh." Mastak frowns, wiping a paint speckled hand against his jeans and accepting the clipboard and pen. "Nothing. Sorry."

He signs for the package and takes it into his apartment, kicking it into the corner as he shuts the door; but the pain in his head is fading and for some reason he knows instinctively this is wrong. Impatiently he grabs a jacket and heads downstairs, walking without a distinct purpose, shifting his aim when the pain wanes until it spikes again.

Eventually he ends up on a short side road that is devoid of other pedestrians--he stops under a street light and glances to either side, sticks his hands in his pockets. The pain softens and becomes something warm and living and he thinks he's missed whatever the hell this is (for some reason, this idea saddens him).

"... _Feuilly_?" There's an incredulous voice behind his left shoulder and he responds to the name for a reason he can't identify, turns to face the brunette who's flat-out staring at him. He's handsome, has a sharp jawbone and eyes like a hound dog, intent yet deceptively distant, and blooming on one cheek is the beginning of a terrible bruise. Mastak looks at him and can picture his smile, how he has a tendency to use too many teeth to pull off friendly, the way he'll grin when he's about to fight and it's more of a snarl than a smirk.

"Feuilly," he repeats, stronger this time, and Mastak opens his mouth to ask what the hell that means when suddenly everything clicks--memories fall into place like they were never missing and he remembers explictly his death, brushes his knuckles against his chest when he realizes reincarnation.

" _Bahorel_ ," he says, and laughs--before he can say anything else Bahorel grabs him and crushes him to his chest, nearly smothers him in the suffocating embrace.

"Christ, Feuilly," he says, like he can't not; he enunciates the name like a prayer. He buries his face into the painter's hair and takes a deep breath, reluctantly lets him back to his feet. "I missed you, bro."

"Bro?" Feuilly echoes but he's laughing, and he grabs Bahorel firmly by the bicep just to feel the solidity of his flesh. "What is this? _How_ is this?"

"I don't know," he answers, "And I don't care." He pulls Feuilly closer to him again and kisses him soundly on the mouth, laughs when he draws back. "Fuck, you even _taste_ the same."

They had become this in their last life, as Feuilly and Bahorel--on the barricade they found distraction within the other's body and although neither really identified as being gay there was no shame in what they'd had. Feuilly grins up at him and licks his bottom lip but says nothing of it.

Intead he asks, "Do you want to go get coffee with me?" and Bahorel laughs while he nods. They pick a cafe a few streets down that Feuilly swears is good and he smokes on the way, the action more of a habit than an addiction. Bahorel watches him and has little thought for reincarnation and soulmates but thinks of the way Feuilly's lips curl around a cigarette instead, and how when Bahorel kisses him deeply enough he can taste ash.

They sit by the window and order and Bahorel drinks his coffee like he drinks anything, recklessly and oftentimes with a great mess. He wipes foam off his chin and Feuilly smiles at him over the lid of his cup.

"So," Bahorel says, setting his empty cup down. "What are you going by these days?"

"Mastak." Feuilly grins. "Mastak Barlow."

"Mastak?" Bahorel echoes with a booming laugh that shows little care for the other patrons. "Your parents named you _Mastak_?"

"Shut up," Feuilly retorts, but he can't smother his chuckle entirely. "They were big on exotic names."

Bahorel grins, stretches back bonelessly in his chair. "Does it mean anything?"

"Yeah." He laughs in disbelief when he connects the dots he's never seen before, shakes his head incredulously. "It means 'artist'."

Bahorel looks at him for a moment then laughs and says honestly, "That's fitting."

"And what about you, Bahorel? What's your name this time around?"

He's already readjusted to Bahorel, has slid right back into that identity, and it takes him a second to say, "Calhoun Carlson." He pronounces it like a stranger's name despite having gone by it for nearly twenty two years now, and frowns at Feuilly's blatant amusement.

"Calhoun," he repeats, scratching some dried paint off the back of his hand. "I like it."

"I like Bahorel better," he says decisively, and Feuilly can't help but agree.

They go together to Feuilly's flat afterward because it's closer and Bahorel doesn't want to leave (although neither say this aloud, both know they won't be splitting up anytime soon). Feuilly shows him his paintings and talks about the ones he's sold to collectors but for the most part he just works in construction in order to pay the bills--in return Bahorel explains that he knows about seven forms of martial arts and teaches multiple classes at a local gym.

Neither got the chance to go to college and both regret it; Bahorel says he could have gone, that his parents were "rich as fuck" but they stopped talking after a huge fight over his major.

"They wanted me to be in politics," he says, and shakes his head. "Dumb fucks."

Feuilly wanted to go for art but says he doesn't mind working with his hands in this life either (from where Bahorel is seated he can see old scars on his fingers, the skin calloused and his joints on the way to ruin from the hard work).

Bahorel spends the night and crashes on the couch but at midnight comes into Feuilly's room, moving quietly in the dark. He pulls the covers rudely off the bed and Feuilly, still sleeping, shivers and rolls onto his side. Bahorel spares a moment to be glad that Feuilly apparently kept the habit of sleeping naked in this life too.

He crawls onto the mattress at his feet and skims the curves of Feuilly's body as he climbs towards his head on his hands and knees, ghosts a breath across his collarbone and sucks a hickey onto his throat. Feuilly wakes with a surprised groan, reflexively tipping his jaw up to allow Bahorel more space, and opens his green eyes in the dark.

"Bahorel," he breathes but there's no surprise; this is how they came to each other before, like this or craving touch and done desperately against a wall.

The sex is more of a fucking and definitely not making love; Feuilly is bruised when they finish and Bahorel is dappled with hickeys. They lay together in the bed breathing, their bodies sweaty and entangled, and Bahorel looks at the ceiling while he says, "We should get an apartment together."

It's supposed to be casual but it isn't, and Feuilly grins and uses his feet to pull the sheets up to his chest. "Sure," he answers and Bahorel chuckles, twists and ruffles Feuilly's hair. "We'll go shopping tomorrow," he says as he flattens his bangs.

Much later, when Feuilly's breathing has evened out and the moon casts silvery shadows into the room, Bahorel brushes his thumb against the artist's hand and murmurs, "I missed you."

Had he known Feuilly was awake he never would have said it and Feuilly knows this--he's satisfied with smiling secretly to himself and listening to Bahorel snore as he falls asleep, says only when he's certain the boxer is out; "I missed you too."

**Author's Note:**

> so I wrote this because I had a really shitty day and I just wanted to ignore everyone and thus I only barely care if nobody likes it because it was therapeutic (and these two hoodlums always make me smile)
> 
> this is fairly clear but their respective names are;  
> Calhoun Carlson -- Bahorel  
> Mastak Barlow -- Feuilly
> 
> and oh oh the title was picked for two reasons  
> 1\. I really love saying anamnesis? like srsly, try it out, it always makes me laugh  
> 2\. it can mean the recollection of a past life specifically but really just refers to memories in general and that is clearly a major part of this story
> 
> also yes the sex scene is lame but I kind of like the vague ones occasionally and tonight was apparently a night for that
> 
> this is a oneshot (I momentarily considered doing a reincarnation au but if I do it won't be for a while) so there shall be no more on this
> 
> kisses to everybody, tumblr is idfaciendumest, I hope you guys like it <3


End file.
